Causatum
by Aelore
Summary: Sherlock and Molly discuss the call. Why Molly seemed to be alright by the end of 'The Final Problem'.


The knock came, as she knew it would. She rose from the couch slowly, doing her best to mask her emotions as she approached the door, conscious of the fact that it would soon crumble when she faced him. She did her best anyway to distance herself, to salvage what little of her feelings, of her soul, remained. It was as her hand rested on the doorknob that the weight of the call came back to her and her eyes filled as her heart broke anew, still raw and throbbing. She reprimanded herself sharply, attempting to bully herself to dry her eyes. She bit her palm sharply, staving off a sob.

"Molly, I know you're there."

She rested her head on the doorframe, closing her eyes and breathing deeply: in through the nose, out through the mouth, her bruised hand clenched to her chest.

"I must-," he cut himself off, "I would like to speak to you…if you allow it."

Her hand tightened on the doorknob.

"Molly, please."

 _"Molly, please."_ _She could hear the urgency, not sure why he was so concerned that she voice the three words she should never utter. They were both well aware of her feelings; he had used them to his advantage on plenty of occasions. Though the panic was unmistakable, she couldn't blurt them out even in his dire need. She gripped the phone closer to her mouth, her eyes closed and her brow knitted as she readied herself for the blow and whispered, barely audible, "I love you."_

His tone lacked the terror from before, though still laced with tenderness, pain, and sorrow. She had heard it before, when he needed to die. Though she was needed at the time, it wasn't directed at her, it wasn't _for_ her.

She knew her voice would break when she spoke to him and didn't know if she could handle her weakness that was still, and would forever be, him.

"I would like to explain in full detail about my actions…I would rather the courtesy of telling you face-to-face."

She sniffed and took a breath, standing upright and readying herself, "…I'm rather emotional right now, Sherlock, and I know how you loathe emotional people."

"I don't care." He stopped suddenly and tried again, speaking rapidly, "No, I mean, it doesn't matter to me if you are emotional, I…no, I mean it _does_ matter to me that you are and that I was the cause. I would like to rectify it."

"I'm not mad at you, Sherlock."

"I would rather you were infuriated with me than your current feelings."

She paused, "How on earth do you know of how I am feeling?"

Her words were low, hissed through a turmoil of anguish with a spike of anger. She knew he wanted her to be angry, to hate him, as that was more familiar ground for him. People often loathed him; but she was the anomaly with her patience, fondness, love and he always hated being in strange territory.

She imagined he was shaking his head as he responded, "I will not explain this in a hallway through a door."

"Incredible. Even now we are worrying over your needs and whims and ignoring mine," she retorted.

As the words left she didn't regret them as much as she would have before that afternoon. Unfortunately, that didn't stop a small smidgen of shame at her blunt tone to wheedle at her.

"Molly…" his voice was strained, closer, she assumed he was leaning his forehead on her door, searching for words in the quiet, "I don't know how to make this right but I am trying, we both know I don't deserve it especially after today, but…I think it would be best if I could do this in front of you."

She steeled herself, jaw clenched tightly as she slowly opened the door, _this is going to hurt when it's over_ the only coherent thought running through her mind.

Sherlock looked like a desperate man, hair slightly disheveled, eyes bloodshot and desperate. He looked paler than normal, a feat that was slightly concerning. He didn't breeze past her into the flat, as he was wont to do, waiting for her permission to enter. She stood aside, giving silent permission, her eyes never fully making contact with his.

He stepped carefully around her, not letting any part brush her as he went past and stood awkwardly. She closed the door, turning her back fully to him as she prepared herself for the ensuing conversation that would break her.

She let out a shaky breath and turned to him, "Tea?" she attempted in a light tone that somehow turned the atmosphere even heavier.

He shook his head.

"You sure?" She still wouldn't look him in the eye.

"Yes."

"I'm going to make myself a cuppa," she said, turning to the kitchen, "I need to be busy with something for this."

He followed her, noticing her falter slightly as she realized she was taking him to the scene of the incident.

She pressed on, "You would think I had had enough tea for the day." They both winced, his going unnoticed.

"Molly—"

"Please, just give me a…a few seconds before bombarding me with whatever you have prepared, alright? I just need to ready myself."

"'Ready yourself?'" he repeated, "Whatever for?"

"For anything you are going to say."

"What do you think I am going to say?" he asked.

"I don't know—I never know, it seems."

He paused, "What would you like me to say, Molly?"

She turned to him, meeting his gaze for the first time, "Honestly? I would like it if you didn't say anything. I would like for whatever happened this afternoon to be ignored and, eventually, forgotten. I would like to be left alone to…to lick my wounds and move on from this. We both know what happened, why it happened; we both know it won't happen again. If it does…it just can't. I know my limits, well aware of them in fact, and something like this, anything even related to this would…it would destroy me, Sherlock. More so than it already has."

His brow had furrowed as she spoke, "How do you know what happened?"

He did a quick circle, cataloguing.

"Mycroft came by."

She nodded, "And John called me, said you were on your way. Gave me a version of what happened, the abridged version, I'm sure. He told me Mycroft already had his people sweep the flat and remove the bugs, must have been when I stepped out after…our conversation." She gave a slight smile, "I'd always heard about big brother watching you and now I have to worry about little sister as well."

Shaking herself from her reverie, she looked at him again, "So I know what happened and we'll…we can return to normal. Me helping you with experiments, pretending to be oblivious when appendages go missing, you giving me derogatory compliments. It can be as it was."

He studied her, noting every facial detail, cataloguing her tone, judging her conclusion. Finally, after long minutes that she desperately wanted to dance away from but remained still because it was him and she knew him, _understood_ him, like no one else, he shook his head.

"It can't be as it was." His tone was decisive. Final. Unyielding.

She hated it.

"It can."

"It can't."

"Yes, it can," she insisted, voice rising.

"No."

She pressed the heel of her palms to her eyes and barked out a laugh, "Things just can't be easy with you, are you aware of that? Anytime something can be swept under a rug you want to clean it up and throw it away properly. The Great Detective can't let bad enough alone." Molly put her hands down and looked at him, "Sherlock, please, I am _begging_ you," her voice broke, "just let this go. I can't—" she hiccupped as tears filled her eyes, "I can't do this. I _can't._ "

He seemed more harrowed with each word she spoke, his eyes welling in sync with hers. She was taken aback; he was more exhausted than she initially thought.

"Molly—"

"I…I think I've changed my mind. I think it's best you go." Neither of them should be having this conversation right now. They were both a mess before she opened the door.

"I need you, Molly," he attempted, desperate.

"I know. You have me," she swallowed thickly, "as you always have. As it seems you always will. For better or worse," she ghosted a smile that fled quickly, "with nothing to salvage for anyone else. Including myself." She couldn't stop that last pathetic jab to herself.

"Today was horrific," Sherlock began talking as if she never spoke, "Not because I discovered the existence of my psychotic sister, or because I watched a man kill himself to save his wife yet saw her murdered despite his sacrifice, or because I was forced to choose between killing my friend or my brother," her brow creased in confusion as he pressed on and picked up speed, "today has been the most hellish of my life but the crowning masterpiece that will forever haunt me is realizing my sister, who I had no recollection of before today, was able to see what I could not in a matter of moments before she even set eyes on you."

Molly stilled, not following how the point connected.

Sherlock put his hands in his coat pockets, trying not to fidget, and at breakneck speed said "I know you have romantic feelings for me," she winced, "and I honestly cannot fathom why. No one, in fact, can. My best habits are rude and socially unacceptable to most and that has left me with few friends but friends I would, and have, died for. I am aware you know this as you were vital to the success of that ordeal and I thank you once again. Going back to my original point, while I know of your romantic tendencies in regards to me, I have never dwelled about that in regards to you." She dropped her eyes as he continued, "I was aware of an affection, a fondness, certainly, but never fully entertained the idea of romantics…that's not to say I had never thought about it."

Her attention snapped back to him.

"I never allowed myself to think about it completely because, let's face it, if there was anyone it would happen with, it would be you. Molly, I always feel that I must be careful with you. I value your friendship, insight, knowledge, I value _you_ more than I can express. I don't show it because I'm me. I know you know this but that still doesn't mean that saying it out loud isn't important. Necessary. I'm sorry that it took a madwoman for me to tell you in person. I'm sorry that you were forced say the one thing that has the potential to ruin…whatever it is we have. It is of utmost importance to me that you realize that, that-" he was stumbling, words that were coming out at a high speed stuttered to a halt.

He looked down frantically and then gazed at her, "I don't want to hurt you again," he whispered, "but…I do…love you."

She was shaking her head and backing away until the counter stopped her. He followed her, "I am married to my work, I am gone for days, weeks, even years, at one point," a small smile emerged that was not returned. He dropped it and pressed on, "I can't ask someone to be ok with my lifestyle when I see how chaotic it is during my lucid moments. Especially when that person is you.

"And I know, _I know,_ you understand me better than anyone I've ever met. Anyone."

He stopped just shy of his coat brushing her. Exhausted and bloodshot eyes studied her, willed her to understand what he was saying. After a moment he realized he made a mistake.

There was always something he missed.

Molly had sensed it earlier and knew the danger of this confrontation but he had bulled ahead as he always did, ignoring her. They were too conflicted, too emotional, too wounded, to do this right now. The air was thick with too many words already said. He should have waited until morning when they both had had a chance to feign rest. Feign sanity.

He glanced at her mouth.

She swallowed.

Sherlock leaned forward, breathing her name, eyes closing.

Hands on his shoulders stopped him. He frowned and opened his eyes. Molly was shaking her head again.

"Please…"

He pulled back a fraction, "Molly, I want to make this right, this… _feels_ right."

She smiled sadly, "I know, but now is not a good time. This is, I don't know, Sherlock, fragility and…sentiment. We both need to heal. You just came out of a rat's maze run by your sister that didn't exist until this morning. I'm sure you and Mycroft have things to discuss. And your parents…there are too many things that need to come first. This isn't one of them, Sherlock. It doesn't need to."

"Why not?"

She laid a hand on his cheek, "Because I'm always here," her voice was shaking though her eyes were steady, "I'm here when the dust settles and this can be…addressed. Figured out. Whatever."

"I was being unfair, just now, wasn't I?"

She hesitated, "A little."

"I'm sorry, Molly. I am. I want to fix this."

"We will," she assured him, "but put first things first."

"I am."

"Sherlock." There was a strain in her voice, conveying his behavior was abnormal for all the years he had known her and too much right now.

"Sorry," he was quiet for a moment, "may I…hug you?"

After her nod, his arms were around her waist and crushing her against him, burying his face in her shoulder. She circled an arm around his back and placed the other on the back of his head.

A sob escaped him and she started, his hold on her stopping her from pulling back.

"I thought you were gone. I thought she had killed you and I couldn't bear it."

The ordeal seemed to catch up to both of them as they clung to each other and replayed their most horrific moments over and over again, keeping the other from drowning.

Sherlock finally pulled back after a few minutes, rubbing a hand over his face, "Sorry."

"It's alright," she said, wiping her own wet cheeks.

They shared a meek smile and started slowly for the front door. Sherlock put his hands in his pockets as she opened the door, "So, I'll see you later?"

"Of course," she answered. She took a hitched step forward and carefully kissed his cheek, lingering before she drew back.

"Come to Baker Street when you get a chance," he said, "John and Rosie will want to see you. And Mrs. Hudson. And me," he narrowed his eyes and tilted his head slightly, his usual arrogant self showing through, "mostly me."

She smiled, "I will."

* * *

Mrs. Hudson opened the door with a delighted exclamation, a quick exchange of pleasantries, and sent her up. The more stairs she climbed the lighter Molly felt. Whatever happened, the worst felt to be over. She paused at the top of the landing, a smile already spreading. She walked through the open door, happy to be back and ready for any outcome.

* * *

 _The end scene of The Final Problem has annoyed me since I saw it. We were told to believe that Molly and Sherlock were totally fine after the most painful scene since the Christmas Party without any explanation? As much as a kiss and fairytale ending would have been nice, and while I do like reading them, I don't think that that would have happened with how their relationship has been shown. So this is done, s_ _orry for my initial_ in-progress _; whenever I write about shows I want to create fill-in scenes, not write new ones for the sake of consistency._ _Who knows if Season 5 will be green lit? Also, I have no idea how to create line breaks on this site._


End file.
